Commuting Blues

I miss not having a car.

Think about this a second. For most Americans, a car is a necessity, like food or dry underwear. One needs a car because most places one wants to go are, like, far.

Living on an island, however, space is at a premium. Things are close together, because they have to be. In New York, you can walk everywhere. For those who don’t want to walk, there’s the subway, which goes everywhere, when it feels up to the task.

There are also cabs, but who needs ‘em? Perhaps I would have hailed cabs more often if I knew about Cash Cab, but I digress.

Consider all the stress in one’s life one can avoid when one doesn’t have a car. No insurance. No rush hour traffic. No maintenance. No flat tires. No getting named designated driver. No cracked windshields that should really get fixed one of these days. Never a “crap, I forgot to fill up the car and now I’m late for work and gas is how much now? Exxon bastards. If I wasn’t driving a hybrid this would really sting in my shorts.” All that stress that’s always buzzing in the back of the head disappears in a poof, like a hot dog in front of my two-year-old.

Commuting by subway (and I’d even go so far as to say commuting by all mass transit, although I don’t have much experience commuting by any conveyance other than subway and car) is far superior to commuting by car. Plus, being on the subway relaxes me. In the car, all I want to do is get to where I’m going. On the subway, I’m courteous and helpful. One time I even helped a tourist:

“Excuse me, how do I get to Grand Central?”

“Take this train. When the announcer says ‘Grand Central,’ get off.”

See, there’s a camaraderie and a community on the subway. Sure, the guy passed out reeking of urine in the middle of the car is a nuisance, but when was the last time you had a story to tell about your commute to work that didn’t involve road rage? Nobody yelled at that guy passed out reeking of urine. We all just went through his pockets. For the record, nobody found anything. He must have been cleaned out long before we got on board the train. But my fellow passengers didn’t wake him, because he was one of us.

Coping, Part 1

Food, I find, helps. I require simple, healthy (low fat, low cholesterol) recipes that use local ingredients and remind me of New York. Plus, the food needs to cook quickly, so that if the kids start acting up, my attention can be divided without worrying about the soufflé falling. Ever had a soufflé fall? That’s how they invented matzah.

The Doctor has said that she would leave me for Bobby Flay. She’s only half-serious. She would also leave me if I didn’t buy her a “thanks for birthing my child” present. She was only half-serious about that, too. I thought that if Bobby Flay were to show up in the hospital thanking her for giving birth to my child, those two half-serious comments would become a whole serious comment, and she would divorce me on the spot. Considering the consequences, I didn’t want to risk him showing up when I was empty-handed.

So I bought the Doctor Bobby’s Mesa Grill cookbook. Not only would the food it told me to cook be tasty, but Bobby cooks American Southwest inspired food. All the recipes would use more-or-less local ingredients. It would be responsible. It would be tasty. It would remind me of eating in New York. It would also have the added bonus that the Doctor would think that I’m capable of cooking Bobby Flay’s food, thus looking, sounding, acting and having the raw animal attractiveness of Bobby Flay.

Hasn’t worked out to the extent that I hoped, but the food is good. It’s also not terribly difficult to make, as long as you don’t attempt the sixteen spice rub chicken on a weeknight. Ever try to mix sixteen spices while holding a toddler? Neither have I.

Inauguration Day

I've finally decided to take the plunge and broadcast every darn thought in my head to the entire internet universe. It only took me 9 months to do it.

I miss the city. Phoenix isn't New York.

That's deep enough for now. More philosophy next time.